Rite of Passage
by RaeC
Summary: SLASH: Ian/Kenneth - Life can be hell.


**Rite of Passage**

**by Rae C.**

****

_The firelight flickered, causing shadows to jump along the walls of the brick passageway.  It smelled damp, dank, and oppressive.  Tiny clinks echoed in the hallway as the masked figures shifted restlessly, anxious for the girl to move.   Ian waited.  _

_Kenneth's whispered promises were too much.  The gifts he promised were too great.  The girl was foolish enough to think that there weren't any strings attached…the truth was, Kenneth would control her for eternity.  _

_He knew Sara would come.  Knew she would choose this path.  Once she walked the gauntlet, bled for the Witchblade, things would change forever.  She and the blade would be as one.  Her old life would cease to exist.  The destruction of the old and the creation of the new.  Trial by fire.  Rite of Passage.  _

_Life or Death._

'Dream much lately, Ian?'  The words mocked him, waking him, Sara's voice still drifting in the air around his bed.  Ian stood, sweat from the nightmare dream cooling his body, his t-shirt and sweat pants sticking to his slick skin.

"The dreams again?"  Kenneth asked from the doorway.

"It's nothing."  Ian attempted to deflect the questions he saw forming in Kenneth's eyes. He looked down at the floor, hands behind his back, a lock of his dark hair falling forward.  Completely still.  Silent.  Deadly.  The perfect…pet.

"Ian," Kenneth moved closer, his body a hairs breadth away, his hand caressing Ian's arm. "Tell me.  Which one was it this time?"  The cultured tones were seductive as always, pulling him into the web Kenneth spun so easily.  The hand rose, cupping his cheek.  Soft.  Desire swirling in the icy blue depths of his master's eyes.  

Yes, Kenneth played him well, pulling his strings as easily as he had the dream Sara who wasn't Sara.  Making him dance to whatever tune Kenneth Irons chose.  Kenneth's mouth lowered, coming closer and closer, barely brushing his lips, a hint of coffee warmed breath and tender caress.  "Confess, my pet.  Which dream does she torment you with tonight?"

"Joan."  Ian rasps.  It's hard to speak, to think when Kenneth is this close, kissing him on his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes, all so gently.  He felt safe, treasured.  A strange feeling for a man considered one of the most dangerous on the planet, but there it is.  Here he is wanted, needed.  

But it's all an illusion.  

He is a tool.

One that will be discarded one day in favour of the woman whose dreams torment him nightly.  Whose dreams earn him this momentary reverence, this chance to feel loved.  With whose protection he is burdened, by chance, by fate, by Master, by mind and soul.  

One day all this will end.  One day he will be outside and this will be all he has left, sense memories of what it felt like to be touched, to be revered.

Forgetting the dream, Ian concentrated on his lover, his employer, his master.  Yes, his master.  Was there any other name more appropriate?  Kenneth owned him.  Ian arched his neck as Kenneth's lips became more instant, teeth nipping, sucking, licking.  Oh yes.  Growling, Ian pulled Kenneth toward the bed, shedding his t-shirt and sweat pants as he did.  He needed to clear his mind, needed to be the only one in this room.  Needed to banish Sara.

Proudly, he stood naked before Kenneth, his cock hard, aching to be touched, his body begging to be taken.  His stance betraying his thoughts, 'I am not her.'  Kenneth shed his jacket, tossing it across the chair and loosened his tie.  Ian was never allowed to touch him during this phase.  Always he stood, or knelt as bit by bit the hard man who was his employer faded and became his lover.  An act of discipline Kenneth demanded even here, in the bedroom.

First the tie came off, falling at his feet.  Ian knelt to retrieve it and placed it on the chair with the jacket.  He turned to find Kenneth sitting on the edge of his bed, his feet slightly in front of him.  Ian knelt, his head bowed, and untie his shoes.  Kenneth ran his fingers through Ian's hair, the ponytail pulled loose and Ian's hair fell forward like a shroud, covering his face.  

He sat back and waited as Kenneth toed his shoes off.  Ian put the shoes under the chair and returned.  Ian was impatient.  The more impatient he was for contact, the longer it took for Kenneth to undress.  One button, two, three…he paused to kiss Ian lightly on the lips and pat his cheek.   Sometimes Ian hated himself.  Hated his impatient need for touch, taste, human contact.

Finally the shirt was unbuttoned, and Ian barely restrained himself from ripping it off his master.  But Kenneth wasn't done yet.  He smiled mockingly, flicked his wrist and unbuttoned the cuff.  He did the same to the other side and stood…waited for Ian to take the shirt from his shoulders.  Ian didn't resist.  He walked behind his master, admiring the handsome picture he made, his arms out, head thrown back, a half smile on his face.  

"Tell me about the dream."

Stunned, Ian stopped.  This was something new.  

"Something wrong, pet?"  Kenneth looked back over his shoulder, waiting on Ian's answer.  

_"No."_

With shaking hands, Ian removed the shirt.  He didn't want to remember the dream.  Didn't want Sara here.  Slowly, he drew the fabric down, all thoughts of Sara gone again as inch by beautiful inch, the pale, muscular back was exposed.  Ian held his breath.  His cock throbbed.  The shirt fell from his hands unnoticed as he reached out to trace the scars that ran over his master's skin.  Scars that he had put there.  Scars that others before him had put there that he couldn't prevent.  For every one, he placed a mark of his own, his kiss, claiming this man before him, just as he had been claimed, owned, possessed.

Kenneth leaned back and Ian wrapped his arms around him.  

"Tell me about the dream." Came the whispered command.

Running his hands over the smooth chest before him, Ian tried to concentrate.   The dream.

_"It's dark.  There are torches on the walls."_

Ian's hands dip lower and lower, barely touching the skin underneath the waistband of Kenneth's pants.

_"There are people there.  I can't tell if they are male or female."_

Ian licked the back of his master's neck, salt and musk rolling over his tongue.  Heat became trapped between them, sweat slicking their skin.  

"Tell me about the girl."

His hands travel lower still, ghosting over his master's cock.  Kenneth's hips surge forward, straining toward the light touch.  Ian captured an earlobe between his teeth and gently nibbled, sucking it, causing his master to moan.

"Not yet." 

The groans filled the room, Ian touching, massaging his master, easing the stiffness in his back and neck.  

_"I'm in my armour, face plate down, waiting."_

Ian's thumbs brushed against Kenneth's quickly hardening nipples, his thumbs circling, caressing, enticing.  Down the sweat-covered chest, over his master's rock hard stomach, Ian worked his way lower and lower before stopping at the opening of Kenneth's slacks.

"Waiting for what?"

Ian slipped the button free, sliding the slacks from his master's body.  Carefully he folded them, placing the pants on the chair along with the rest of Kenneth's things.  With one last caress, he returned to Kenneth's side, the man now standing naked before him.  Glorious.  Beautiful.  His.

_"Waiting for her to cross."_

He reached for the pale skin, pale as ice in the moonlight.  He touched, almost afraid his master was a ghost.  Heat exploded under his hand.  No illusion this.  

"Why?"

Now it was Ian's turn to be the one touched.  He waited, leashing his need to feel his master's hand on his body. His breath sounded harsh, even to his own ears.  His pulse pounded.  It was caring, love, of a sort.  It was enough.  It had to be.

_"Because she has to prove her worth."_

"What about you Ian…what's _your worth?"  Ian stood again with his head down.  This was the dangerous part of the dream.  The part Kenneth Irons wouldn't like.  Something Ian rarely held in this life.  Power.  Control.  Choice._

_"I am the judge."_

Kenneth's fingers ran lightly over his stomach.  Brilliant blue eyes bored into Ian's soul, taking, demanding, owning. 

"What if she doesn't cross?"

His blood sang.  

_"She has no choice.  The Witchblade has chosen her."_

Kenneth pushed him to his knees.  He didn't have a choice either…Kenneth chose him long ago. Ian shivered with anticipation as he waited for his master's commands.  Body guard by day, lover by night.

_"She must cross."_

Ian took Kenneth into his mouth, sucking, tasting, giving his mind and body over to the experience.  He no longer cared whom he was with or how long it lasted.  He only felt the hands in his hair, the fingers alternately kneading and digging into his scalp.  The bitter-salty blend of pre-cum mixed with the smell of musk floating in the air.  The warmth of the body under his hands and the heat of the iron hard cock sliding in and out of his mouth was everything.  And Ian  wanted even more. 

A throb was the only warning he received and Ian swallowed.  He took as much of the cock down his throat as he could, sucking hard.  His master yelled and came.  And came.  And shook.  Kenneth's fingers tangled into his hair, holding his head still as Kenneth pumped into his willing mouth.  

Ian licked and kissed Kenneth's softened flesh before he pulled away.  He always felt loss at this stage.  The connection severed as surely as if had never been.  Whatever feeling of intimacy that existed, vanished.

Kenneth released Ian and pushed him away.  His master's needs were satisfied.  He didn't have any further use for him.  Ian turned his head away as Kenneth sank down onto the bed.

"Pleasure yourself."  His master commanded.  "Open your legs, my pet."

Ian spread his legs; his body naked to the eyes of his master.  Nothing hidden.  His shaft was hard, pulsing in need, the dusky tones in contrast to his pale flesh.  Ian slid his hand up and down on his cock, Kenneth's eyes dark as he watched.  He slid his other hand down to cup his balls, rolling them, pulling lightly, caressing in turns as he continued stroking.  His eyes locked on his master's as if by giving himself pleasure he could fulfill Kenneth Irons as well.

"Hands on your thighs, Ian." 

Ian gasped, the strain of stopping nearly too much.  

His master leaned slightly forward.  "Do you want me?  Want me to touch you?"  It was a question his master asked time and time again.  Each evening as Ian undressed him, satisfied him, and prepared him for bed.  

And Ian always answered the same. His body ached for it, wanted it.  Needed it.  

_"Yes."  He felt the hot blush of shame creep into his face.  He couldn't help this feeling, this desire to be more to his master than a tool to be used.  A test he couldn't pass.  His own rite of passage failed once more._

"Look at me!" His master hissed. Roughly, his head was pulled back and his eyes forced to seek angered blue.  "Learn this lesson well, Ian.  Sex is a tool.  Nothing more.  It will control you if you do not learn to control it."  Kenneth let go and rolled back onto the bed.

"Relieve yourself and come to bed."

Ian jerked himself off quickly under the unrelenting eyes of his master.  The act was empty, unfulfilling.  Not even the voyeuristic qualities of the situation could inspire him.  Anger glittered in Kenneth's icy eyes now, robbing any warmth, any emotion from the act.  As if want and need could be wiped out, denied existence, just because Irons said so.

Ian jerked off because Kenneth Irons commanded it; the man enslaved him, owned him, loved him, hated him.  Suppressing a sob, Ian came, cleaned himself with a tissue and crawled into bed.  

The pet who could not stand to sleep far from its master.  

Ian lay quietly on his side, Kenneth's back to him.  He knew the moment his master fell asleep, his safety assured now that his pet was on guard.  There would come a time when Ian would no longer be the one here, in this bed.  When Sara or someone else close to her would occupy his place.  When he would no longer amuse Kenneth Irons.  Ian both dreaded and welcomed its coming.  

His mind whirling, he fell back against the pillow, his thoughts returning to the dark-haired, dark eyed temptress whom fate made his niece. He had no more chance of escaping his fate than Sara.  There was nothing he could do to protect her from her ultimate future, either death at the hands of Kenneth Irons, or life kneeling at his side.  But that was a death of another kind.  To be trapped as he was now, betrayed by his own flesh.  In torment.

Ian leaned over and stole a kiss from his master. Now, at least, he could pretend, just for a moment.  Then he closed his eyes and slept.  

Morning came too soon.

---

The End


End file.
